


If At First You Don't Succeed

by fandomfan



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Ficlet, First Time, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomfan/pseuds/fandomfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not what Brad does. This is not the way of the Iceman.</p>
<p>Brad does not allow himself to be led astray by a Southern drawl and a mischievous sideways smile. The Iceman does not get off on hard muscles and broad shoulders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If At First You Don't Succeed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [fosfomifira](http://fosfomifira.livejournal.com/)'s prompt, _Brad/Walt, first time they woke up together_ at a recent "Firsts" prompt fest.

Ray's bachelor party is epic, insane, and, according to the great states of Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas, illegal.

To be clear, Brad can only vouch for the illegality in those three states. After he left the club, who knows what those degenerate fuckers got up to. But despite the truly impressive amounts of alcohol consumed last night, he very clearly remembers the fucking he got up to, and according to Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas, it was as degenerate as they come. And illegal, too. At least until those sodomy laws are overturned.

This is not what Brad does. This is not the way of the Iceman.

Brad does not allow himself to be led astray by a Southern drawl and a mischievous sideways smile. The Iceman does not get off on hard muscles and broad shoulders.

Only, the proof that he very emphatically did these things and more last night is lying next to him, still asleep amid very enthusiastically rumpled white sheets that make those hard muscles and broad shoulders look really fucking—

No.

Abort.

Situation critical. Egress with all haste.

Brad shifts toward the edge of the bed, but he's only got one foot on the floor before Walt (yes, it's fucking Hasser) opens his eyes blearily and croaks, "Brad?"

Goddammit, his befuddled expression is in no way adorable.

"Go back to sleep," Brad whispers, still hoping to make his escape before any awkward conversations have to take place.

"Uh uh," Walt says, clamping his hand around Brad's wrist with all the will and muscle power of a high end private security contractor. "Stay put, you."

Brad sighs. Awkward conversation incoming, then, in three—two—

"You fucked me but good."

Huh... no trace of awkward there in Walt's voice. On the contrary, he sounds like he's gloating. No trace of awkward in his stupid stretching, either. How many sit-ups does it take to get abs like—

No.

Abort.

"About that," Brad starts, searching for the Iceman, but the Iceman seems to be busy staring at tan skin and mussed sandy blond hair.

Walt smiles this wide smile that's just patently unfair. His tongue peeks out the corner and he looks... happy. So happy. Killing that smile would be like kicking a puppy.

"Uh... look," he tries again, but Walt cuts him off.

"All right, fine. Lay it on me." He's still holding onto Brad's wrist, and now he rolls onto his stomach to look up at Brad with a knowing grin. "Hit me with your best homo panic."

It's very frustrating to be so constantly nonplussed. How do regular people manage?

"Walt, I..." It seems like finishing a sentence is not in Brad's cards just yet.

"Lemme guess," Walt says. "You should never have had that last shot. It was just letting off steam. I'm a really good guy but it's not like that. This was such a mistake." He raises his eyebrows inquisitively. "Any of that sound about right?"

To his dying day, Brad will never tell a soul that every single one of those has flashed through his mind in the few minutes he's been awake.

"I just don't fuck men," is what he finally comes up with.

Walt looks down at his own very naked self and then pointedly at Brad, similarly bare. Then he bursts out laughing. Rolling around on the bed, honest-to-god chortles of fucking laughter. Brad takes the opportunity of his freed wrist to finally stand up and start hunting for his scattered clothes.

He's only found his underwear, though, before Walt's laughter wheezes off and he says, "Well you may not fuck men, Brad Colbert, but I sure do, and me and my sore ass agree that you fucked a man last night."

He kneels up in the middle of the mattress, and all of a sudden the giggling farm boy is gone, and there's some sort of golden, seductive incubus _thing_ in his place who says, "And judging by all the bite marks you left behind and the way you mostly couldn't do more than moan my name, you had yourself a _real_ good time doing it."

He's... no, he's not. Yes. Yes, he is. Walt is sliding one hand up to finger a particularly livid bruise at his throat that matches Brad's bite radius quite exactly. And his other hand... shit. His other hand slithers over those impressive abs and down to where Walt Jr. is also waking up, happy to greet the new day.

Brad swallows audibly. He hasn't felt this wrong footed since some very awkward adolescent years he prefers not to think about.

Walt hums as he wraps a hand around his dick and strokes, slowly, with obvious relish. "Tell ya what," he purrs (yes, purrs; it's not girly if it's the most appropriate word to describe that noise Walt is making). "There _were_ a lot of shots last night. And there _was_ plenty of steam to let off after the bevy of strippers."

Which... yes... but Brad's not exactly thinking about the strippers right now.

Walt's still fondling himself, and he's pinching at a nipple and sighing over it, and there's no way someone should look so good after a night of such debauchery.

"I..." is Brad's contribution to the conversation.

Walt continues like Brad's not proving an embarrassment to himself and all avowedly-straight-until-holy-shit-the-guy-I-fucked-last-night-is-motherfucking-sex-on-legs men before and after him. "The thing is, Brad... mmmm. The thing is, I _am_ a really good guy. Really, really good."

Brad's inclined to agree right about now.

Walt looks up at him, blue eyes peering through his lashes in a look that's more or less the textbook definition of _come hither_. "So how 'bout you come back to this bed instead of running out like a scared little shit, and you give me a chance to show you how much of a mistake fucking me _isn't_."

It's the blatant insult to his courage that has Brad back on the bed before he knows it. No other reason. Brad Colbert is no scared little shit. Brad Colbert is a paragon of finely honed warrior masculinity who... oh god, fuck it.

He's a man who tackles Walt flat onto his back and puts all his considerable focus into figuring out that no, no mistakes were made here. None at all.

And provided no one interrupts them, none will be for the next few hours, either.


End file.
